Masquerade
by Splintered Star
Summary: Truth burned and reality was harsh, but Joker knew how to blind people with pretty tales and the rush of the circus. He just wished he could blind himself. Set before the circus arc, as Joker assembles his mask one morning. Spoilers through chapter 35.


(Joker-centric, mangaverse. K+. Spoilers through chapter 35. Hints of Joker/Beast.)

Joker was always an early riser.

As he rose from his bed and shrugged on his outfit, his tent was still almost pitch black – lit only by the faint glow of the stars through his canvas walls and the barely open door. It was still early enough for most people - unfamiliar with circus work - to think it was late, and dawn was hours away. Joker walked the length of his dark tent with ease, fixing his hair as he walked, and sat down at his makeup table. There was no show today, and none scheduled for at least a week or so – but Joker didn't like being seen without his makeup, these days.

It made things easier.

His makeup brush was smooth and familiar in his hand as he lifted it to apply his eyeliner. He couldn't see a thing in the dim starlight, but he didn't need to after so many years. This was routine, automatic - familiar enough to be comforting, but delicate enough to be distracting. The makeup around his eyes took focus - he couldn't let himself be distracted or he'd blind himself, and as tempting as that was right now, he couldn't. Focus on the brush, focus on the stroke, don't think. Don't think.

He forced all of his attention on his brush - a tool of his trade as much as any conductor's baton or juggler's ball. It was one of the few things he had splurged on in his life - a set of solid makeup brushes, expensive and enduring, with soft bristles and handles of slowly yellowing ivory. His hand shook, just a little, for no reason he would ever name - he had no reason to be bothered by bone, after all; he could hardly be squeamish about something he strapped to his shoulder every morning. He'd seen enough bone in his life. He'd seen too much bone, little helpless children, broken and breaking, falling from the high wire -

Don't think.

He sighed, setting his brush down and reaching for a cloth. His shaking hand had smeared eyeliner across his cheekbone, and he wouldn't leave his tent until it was perfect. If it wasn't perfect, if it wasn't convincing, then there was no point at all.

That was his job, after all, in and out of the ring, in and out of his own mind - convincing people that the impossible was real, that everything would work out if they believed. Believe, believe, trust in the man with the painted-on smile and everything will be okay. It had been a long time since Joker had believed such pretty tales, but he knew how to spin them.

Maybe, he wished quietly, wiping the smudged eyeliner from his left eye - maybe one day he would be able to spin a pretty tale strong enough to blindfold himself. Maybe, maybe - but he knew better than to hope. He always had. All he had ever wished for was a way out of the gutter for him and his people - his family of broken souls - and, well, he had learned the hard way about being careful with what he wished for.

It was all right, of course, always all right - the price was high but he'd bear it if that meant his people were safe. Not happy - none of them could be happy, not anymore, not since Father started - don't think.

He set the cloth back down on the table, not disturbing any of the brushes or brightly-colored beads scattered across the surface. He looked carefree - a part of the magic of the circus, a part of the lie - but everything had its place. Once he'd believed the lie, once he'd believed in the pretty chaos spinning all around him with Doll's laughter and Beast's shy smiles. But that was a long time ago, before Joker took over the circus and before he feared Father's laugh; before Joker learned to dread the name Ciel Phantomhive.

He reached for his brush again, but hesitated - his hand was shaking again, shaking with memories and the sound of Father's laughter as bodies hit a polished stage. Ciel, that spiked flower that had torn Father's mind – Joker wanted to hate him. He wanted to blame Ciel, for the madness gleaming in Father's eyes and the splashes of blood on Joker's face that all the makeup in the world couldn't cover. If he hated Ciel then somehow it would be better, then it wouldn't just be a sacrifice for those left behind – it would be just, somehow. Joker wasn't sure how, and he didn't want to think.

But as hard as he tried – and he tried, again and again, sitting in a carriage on his way back to the circus, and wishing the pounding of the horses' hooves would overpower the screams echoing in his mind – as hard as he tried Joker couldn't hate Ciel. He couldn't hate this boy he'd never met, never seen – a boy oblivious and innocent of the horrors done in his name. Even though Father would do such things for him – Joker shook his head. Ciel didn't matter, in the end.

No one mattered except for his siblings; he reminded himself as he forced his hand to steadiness and picked up the brush again. No one mattered except for his family of broken people, those abandoned by everyone else. He started redoing the eyeliner on his left eye, listening to the circus stirring awake – the eager work of people who have a home for the first time. The sound brought something almost like a smile to his face. He'd thrown in his lot with them, sworn to protect them, and he would never, ever take that back. No matter what Father told him to do, no matter what it cost, no matter the blood and tears and…

Don't think.

He glanced out through the open sliver in his tent, out at the sleepy chaos of the circus. He watched, just for a moment, as a few of the new ones ran past – children, little orphans with nowhere else to go. Clattering, chattering with eagerness and light, so different from the others – don't think. He continued brushing his makeup on, focusing on it and trying not to shake again.

He bit his lip, just a bit – focusing was hard with the images twisting in his mind, memories –don't think – from just a few nights before spinning with blood –don't think – and the gleam in Father's eyes when they fell -don't think! He couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop remembering them, those broken children dying so other broken children could live – it wasn't fair, was never and could never be fair, but it was the only way it could be.

That was a cold comfort, colder than the porcelain strapped to his arm. He felt his eyes prickling with memories – when was the last time he cried? – but he couldn't cry, that would ruin his makeup and break his mask. He couldn't even rub his eyes, not before the eyeliner dried. So he sat for a moment, holding back the tears he could and would never shed.

Jesters did not cry, and Joker's mask had no place for true tears.

He sat, frozen-still but for the trembling, too tight grip on the edge of the table. Slowly, slowly, with deep breaths and forced-away memories, he became himself again - the ring leader, the charmer; the mask that was dearer to him than reality. Reality was hard, reality stung and broke souls - all Joker could do was wish it away to somewhere where no one ever had to see it.

He led his group of forgotten children, blinding their eyes and playing the oldest game of all: "Let's pretend." He had to focus on them, had to stop thinking about reality. Truth didn't matter. Just his children, those in his arms and those waiting for him. They would be his truth, and reality would be damned.

It wasn't enough. But it would have to be enough.

Joker turned as his tent flap opened, forcing a smile on his face for Beast - the only one that would come check on him. He knew he was running late, and apologized to her – and could she make sure the new ones were getting ready? It was still dark, and he hoped that would be enough to keep her from seeing how red his eyes were. She began to say something, but stopped, and nodded. She wore the same sort of mask he did, and they both knew - strength instead of charm and tight leather instead of makeup, but details were just that.

He smiled, only a little bit bitter and only a little bit sad, but then he slipped his mask back on - she knew too much already, and the idea of burdening her or any other with more truth clenched at Joker's heart. She cared about him, and he knew she did - he might have loved her, maybe, somewhere deep in a place he didn't think about, but it didn't matter. Better to pretend they were all blind, that feelings didn't exist except for the rush of the stage defying death one more time – to believe in the masks that they all knew better than to trust.

It made things easier. For all of them.

It wasn't enough, and didn't make the memories fade - so young, so young, those broken bodies were once someone's children - but it would have to be enough. It had to be enough for him, because he was everything to them. He set his brush to his cheek, brushing on the final part of his mask - a tear for the lost ones, the ones he could save and the ones he couldn't – the only tear he could shed. Finally, he was fully Joker, no longer the scared boy whose name he barely remembered.

He set the brush down, and looked at his reflection in the slowly brightening light. There was nothing to give away the truth smothered under makeup and smiles - nothing but a bit of redness around his eyes, a half-twist of his smile that looked more bitter than cheerful; tiny cracks in his mask that time and the rush of the day and laughter -his and those of his saved ones - would soon smooth over.

He rose, leaving his carefully arranged mess of a makeup table. The swirl of the circus and the gorgeous chaos was waiting for him, and reality no longer mattered. No one would see the cracks in his mask, none but a few precious people with cracks in their own, and they would never tell. He stood in the doorway, staring out at the first hints of dawn and the swirling insanity of the circus.

He smiled – a perfect, utterly fake smile on a perfect fake face – and stepped out into the never ending show.

(end)


End file.
